High Maintenance

by Jennifer Belle

  I thought of this bi-curious girl showing up at the Paramount and seeing Dale there and being bi-disappointed.

  “I don’t know, Dale. Why don’t you take Harri to the Paramount?”

  “She’s even younger than you are,” Dale said. She looked at me trying to gauge my reaction. “You’re not the only young girl in the world.”

  “I’m not that young,” I said.

  “You know I had a dream about you last night if you can believe that,” Dale said. “The kid’s in my dreams now. I was running to catch up with you but my legs were chopped off at the knees. You were encouraging me, though. You axed me if I was okay. What do you make of that?”

  I took it as a very bad omen that Dale was dreaming about me. I cringed. “Dreams don’t really mean anything,” I said.

  “There’s something I have to tell you. My friend Paula told me not to do this but I really want to get it off my chest.” Her chest heaved.

  The waitress put down my salad and Dale’s steak and I started eating as fast as I could.

  “Do you want to hear what I have to say? I don’t know, maybe it’s just that I’m getting my period. Maybe I shouldn’t say anything,” she said.

  I stood up. “I should really take this over to James and Cheryl. It’s getting late and I want them to have it.”

  “That’s my champ,” Dale said. “The winner!”

  “Thanks, Dale,” I said, and I was grateful. I had done my first deal, a rental deal, but a deal nonetheless. I had made forty-five hundred dollars.

  I grabbed my heavy basket and walked with it awkwardly, holding it out from my side, to the building on Watts Street. The streets of SoHo were empty, gloomy. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood.

  But when I got to the building it was burning. The firemen were using the extended ladder to break the windows. I stood across the street with Cheryl and her husband and dozens of spectators. They had arrived home from the supermarket and found the fire trucks. It was a four-alarm fire. They lost everything, pictures, jewelry, computers, work, all their unpacked boxes.

  A fireman said they suspected arson. “Probably set by the landlord for the insurance money. We see it all the time,” he said.

  The couple stood holding each other.

  I put the basket at their feet.

  “Where are the dogs?” I asked, frightened.

  The husband shook his head and pointed toward their top-floor windows.

  Cheryl was crying.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “You knew this was going to happen,” James said.

  “No, I didn’t,” I said, horrified. Dale had forced me to bring the deposit checks to the owner. She said she couldn’t face him. I wondered if she knew the building was going to burn. Dale had already deposited the commission check.

  “We want our commission back,” James said.

  “You have to talk to Dale,” I said.

  “Fuck you,” he said. He bent down and grabbed the honey bear from the basket and threw it at me. It just missed my head. I tried to talk to them but he kept cursing at me. Then he hurled the basket at my feet.

  “Stop it,” Cheryl cried. “Stop it.”

  “Come into the office tomorrow,” I said and turned to leave.

  I wondered what it would have been like if I had lost everything in a fire, my husband, my apartment, my things, instead of just walking away from it all the way I did. Same difference.

  As I walked home to MacDougal Street I looked at all the buildings I passed. They each seemed human and alive, each with a distinct personality. Some were gracious and pale, like geishas. Some hid behind masks of gargoyles. Some were hard workers with sleeves rolled up, showing graffiti tattoos. Some had windows sealed up with bricks, like Jerome. Some were sad, with small streams of urine at their feet like pools of tears.

  I talked to them as I passed. I loved my new friends, the buildings. I felt like one of them. I was made out of brick and concrete, my spine was a cast-iron column, my rib cage was a cage elevator from an old hotel, my heart was a radiator, my head was a penthouse, my breasts were bay windows, my two lungs air shafts, a boiler room was between my legs. I imagined myself on fire. I felt sorry for the poor building burning on Watts Street, not the two newlyweds holding each other on the corner.

  My shrink had been right. I was a nomad. But I wasn’t a turtle without a shell. I was a shell walking around without my turtle.

  It really burned?” Dale said, the next day in the office. She looked like a kid who was about to get in trouble.

  “They want their money back,” I told her.

  “The commission is nonrefundable,” she said.

  “But Dale, the landlord burned their apartment down the day after they paid it,” I said. “Their dogs are dead.”

  “I know, that’s pretty bad,” Dale said, as if it were a slight inconvenience like forgetting to get them a copy of their mailbox key. “But this is New York and the commission is nonrefundable.”

  “It isn’t right, Dale.”

  “Let me axe you this—is the owner of a gun store responsible if a man buys a gun and commits murder with it? And is a travel agent responsible if she sells a plane ticket to someone and the plane goes down? And let me axe you another question—how do we know they didn’t cause the fire themselves? Maybe they left the coffeemaker on when they left the loft or maybe their dogs found a way to turn on the stove.”

  “I don’t think the dogs turned on the stove or made coffee, Dale.”

  “All I’m saying is we really don’t know what happened and it’s not our problem. Here’s a hot tip, Liv. Everyone wants their commission back. Nobody likes their apartment after they’ve moved in. If you returned the money every time someone had a complaint, you’d be broke. You can’t be in the business of returning commissions.”

  I hated Dale so much at that moment I decided I wanted to give back the commission.

  “I think we should give it back.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, we. We should give back the whole nine thousand.”

  “The whole thing?” Dale asked, as if she were talking to a crazy person. She shook her head and sat at her desk, thinking. She put her finger in the air. “Were they smokers?”

  “No, Dale.”

  “Well, it’s against company policy to refund a commission, so there’s nothing I can do, but what you do with your half is up to you. If you want to let a couple of rich kids run you around, be my guest.”

  “At least I did a deal.”

  “You haven’t done the deal till you’ve spent the dough,” she said. “But I’m still proud of you. Disappointed but proud.”

  While this discussion was taking place, Lorna sat at her desk the whole time, smirking and snickering to herself.

  “Well, as soon as you give me my half I’m giving it right back to them. What would you do, Lorna?” I asked her.

  “What would I do?” she mimicked. “This conversation is making me sick. What would I do? I wouldn’t have handled a fucking cursed bad-luck death-trap doomed apartment to begin with,” she said.

  “Give the kid a break, she’s had a rough night,” Dale said. She smiled at me. Then the phone rang and Dale answered. “Yes, James, how can we help you?” she said. “First let me express my sympathies for your fire in your apartment. Well, I’m sorry you feel that way. Let me axe you a question. What can we do to help you and Shirley turn this situation around and get something positive out of it? What? That’s what I said, you and Cheryl.”

  Dale smiled at me, pointed to herself and gave the thumbs-up sign to show she had things under control.

  “Yes, and our most sincere condolences on the loss of your beloved pets,” she continued. “We’d like to do whatever we can to help you through this trying time. Will you be needing to look at other apartments? You might want to consider buying instead of renting in this market.�
� She listened for a moment. “I see. Well, I’m looking at the document you signed right here on my desk.” She looked down at her chocolate muffin. “I’m sure that you’re aware that we could sue you for that, but perhaps we could work something out. I see. Well, if that’s the way you feel about it. It just goes to show that bad things happen to bad people for a reason. Goodbye,” she said, and hung up.

  “He canceled all the checks,” she said. “Cheap bastards. Their house burns, their dogs die, and they have time to worry about canceling checks. And here we are feeling sorry for them and getting ready to refund their monies. People don’t give you a chance to be a good person in this business. Next time get certifieds,” Dale said.

  10.

  NONSTRUCTURAL WALLS

  Three days later I had my own listing. Dale had given it to me. I stood on Laight Street looking at my watch, waiting for my five o’clock appointment. I was feeling slightly nervous that the man wouldn’t show up because he hadn’t sounded too sure where Laight Street was, or what a loft was, or what he needed it for. He said he had gotten my number from Judge Garrett. Dale had been glaring at me during the whole phone call. She didn’t think I was “qualifying” the customers carefully enough. “Axe how much money he has,” she whispered. I ignored her. She snapped her fingers at me, which is always how she tried to get my attention when I was on the phone.

  “Axe!” she screamed.

  “Do you and your wife have the funds for such an expensive loft?” I asked. “You would have to put down twenty-five percent as a down payment.” Didn’t Dale know that people just lie?

  “Hold on a second,” the man said, “I have a call.” He put me on hold.

  “Oh, that’s plenty,” I said. “You’re more than qualified.” I looked at his name, which I had written neatly on top of the client sheet. Fred Freund.

  Fred Freund came back on the line. “Now, you were going to describe the loft to me,” he said.

  I looked down at the listing sheet in a panic. I hadn’t been allowed access to the loft. I hadn’t even seen it yet. “It’s very large, a large, vast space,” I said. Dale had scribbled 3000 and a square with a line going through it. “It’s three thousand square feet,” I said. Under description there was just one word, “Strange.” “It’s a little bit hard to describe,” I said. “It’s one of a kind, Mr. Freund.”

  The man let out a theatrical laugh like a kid pretending to be a vampire. It made me smile. I got off the phone as quickly as possible.

  I had taken a cab to Laight Street, even though it wasn’t far from the office, so I would be there on time. I had to get out in Holland Tunnel traffic and cross Canal Street using the pedestrian walk-over. Hundreds of cars honked. A sculpture, a giant orange metal knot, loomed pointlessly in the middle of the traffic circle. This man was not going to take this loft, even if he did show up. My new beeper went off. Since Dale had given it to me I had to tend to it constantly like a Tomagochi toy, pressing its buttons and changing its batteries. She always punched in her number followed by 911 to let me know it was an emergency.

  A man came up behind me and said, “Hello.” “Hello,” I said. He didn’t say sorry I’m late.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” he said.

  It wasn’t my client, Fred Freund. It was Andrew, the lifter, the architect from Judge Moody’s retirement party. He wasn’t wearing a suit as he had been when we met. He was wearing blue jeans and a blue denim shirt with a tie. A very bad look. “No, I’m afraid I don’t,” I said. The good thing about living in New York is that even though you constantly run into people as if you were living in the smallest of towns you can blatantly pretend that you’ve never seen them before in your life.

  “You don’t remember me from the party?” he said.

  “What party?” I could still feel his hands on me.

  “Moody’s party at the courthouse. Are you sure you don’t remember me, Liv? I thought it was a very up-lifting experience.” I hoped he would go away before Fred Freund showed up. I hoped he wouldn’t make a scene.

  “Ooooooh, yes, now I remember,” I said. We both just stood there. “I’m waiting for a client,” I said.

  “It’s me,” he said, “I’m your new client, Fred Freund.” He did the vampire laugh and I smiled again in spite of myself. I clutched the keys. Maybe it wasn’t safe to go upstairs with him. He was certainly less imposing standing on ground level than up on a balcony. Here on the sidewalk he wasn’t even much taller than me. He looked at me with an expression I recognized from somewhere but couldn’t quite put my finger on. Something I had once seen a long time ago, maybe in a movie. Oh yes, I remembered, it was adoration.

  As we got into the elevator I accidentally called him Andrew.

  “So you do remember me,” he said. “Should I carry you over the threshold?”

  “If you lift me I’ll call the police,” I said.

  When we entered the loft I was horrified to see some sort of bamboo tiki hut built right in the center of it. There was a little door to get into it. In fact there were doors everywhere. Dozens of little doors lined the entire loft on both sides.

  Andrew and I stood looking at it in disbelief. “This place is awful,” Andrew said.

  “I think it’s fantastic,” I told him. “I love this … structure.” I pointed to the tiki hut. He marched around opening every door like a child. Behind each door were massage tables and shiatsu mats and sinks built right into the floor.

  “What do you think these are for?” Andrew asked, looking at the sinks, as if it were some kind of sex thing. “Bidets for very short people?”

  “Pedicures,” I said.

  He laughed as if that were hilarious.

  “What would you be using the loft for?” I asked.

  “Luckily, I was thinking of opening a Korean whorehouse, so this place is perfect,” he said.

  “Well, the maintenance is very low and it’s seventy-two percent tax deductible.”

  “Look at this,” Andrew said. I couldn’t see him. “I’m in here,” he said. A door opened a crack. I opened it and walked into a tiny wooden sauna.

  Andrew’s tie was on the floor and his shirt was rapidly coming off. He ladled water onto coals that sizzled.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him.

  “This feels so good,” he said. He sat down on the redwood bench and closed his eyes, with his chin up in the air as if there were sun. I stood holding the door open. “Are you in or out,” he said with his eyes closed.

  “I’m in,” I said. I sat next to him on the bench and felt the heat of the room. I took off my boots. I took off my coat. Another strange job, I thought. I pulled my sweater up so that my stomach was bare. He stretched his arms up over his head and then out so that our fingertips almost touched. I wondered what would happen if we had sex on the bench.

  “I’m very interested,” he said. “You’re a great salesperson.”

  “Maybe you’d like to come back and bring your girlfriend or wife or whatever,” I said.

  “We’re not married. I told you all this at the party. I live with someone. But it’s ending.”

  “So, I’ve been put on a waiting list of some sort?”

  “Oh, come on, Liv, this is so great. Don’t ruin it,” he said. “Let me rub your feet.”

  I yanked my feet up off the floor and folded them under me. “No.”

  “Come on, I just want to rub your feet, what’s wrong with that?”

  “Absolutely not. Do you have any other questions about the loft?”

  “I have thought about you every day since I met you,” he said.

  “But you live with someone,” I said, in a naive sexpot voice, like Marilyn explaining why she keeps her panties in the fridge.

  “Well, Liv, sometimes life is complicated,” he said, solemnly.

  Then we both were solemn, sitting in the sauna, sweating. Andrew ladled water on the coals.<
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  His chest was covered with black hair and his skin was dark.

  “Can I take off my pants?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  He smiled at me and I started warming up. I began to thaw. I closed my eyes and relaxed into the heat, the way you do in Los Angeles when you finally admit that the weather is really great, in spite of yourself. Andrew was like Los Angeles, a studio lot, a break-away façade of a building. A fake dorsal fin emerging from a man-made lake, without the shark attached.

  Once, when I was a child, my shrink said, “Your mind is playing tricks on you.” I pictured my mind as a mean little boy, taunting me in a horrific Halloween costume.

  “I have a client waiting downstairs,” I said.

  “You’re kidding,” he said, as if that were the rudest thing he had ever heard.

  “No, I’m not,” I said, nastily. “This isn’t a date.” I stood up and pulled down my sweater.

  “A date?” he said, exaggerating the word. “I think it is a date.” I wished I hadn’t said the word “date.” “Look, Liv, I know you’re just recently separated and I’m still living with … someone.”

  “Someone?”

  “But sometimes things happen, Liv, and there’s not that much we can do to fight it. I have been completely and totally in love with you since I met you.”

  I sat back down. I had to admit I was flattered by Andrew. But I was flattered by the bums who hung around the chess tables in Washington Square Park. It didn’t take much. And then I wondered if Andrew was somehow right about all this. Maybe he knew something I didn’t. Maybe love had a black, hooded, grim reaper quality that you couldn’t avoid. It seemed so important to him.